Posted on November 14, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with the story

Peter MacDonald photo

 

 

I have always been fascinated by hospitals.  They were not places that I generally frequented over the years until recently, when I decided to start my fourth career in the field of mental health.  The word “retirement” doesn’t sit well with me.  Retirement generally signifies the end of a productive work life.   However, like many boomers, I see work as just one, long continuum with a change of direction every now and then.

Television has glamorized hospitals and like many people my age, I’ve seen episodes of Dr. Kildare, General Hospital, ER and Gray’s Anatomy.  Invariably, some young attractive doctor is the protagonist with co-workers taking turns duelling and drooling.  Add a dash of romance and a splash of rancor and you’ve got a ratings winner on your hands.  If it were only so.

My father in law, Dr. John, epitomized the profession of a bygone era.  He took the time to really get to know his patients and he was a brilliant diagnostician.  The former probably had a lot to do with the latter.  He had a profound respect for nurses.  And far from feeling terribly self important, he was humble and had a good sense of humour.  He could handle good natured ribbing from the nursing staff.   And they took advantage of that whenever the opportunity presented itself.  There was the famous incident when a noted prankster removed the camel from the nativity scene in the hospital rotunda and planted it in his office.  This caused quite a stir amongst the Sisters who, with a little help, caught him red handed.

I have known some wonderful nurses over the years, having undergone several knee operations.  I remember coming out of surgery at the old Civic Hospital in Halifax and experiencing a great deal of pain.  The nurses there were uncommonly kind.  On the day of the surgery, my X-ring went missing from my night table.  The post surgical pain was so bad that I asked them to reopen the incision in my knee.  I thought they might have left the ring in my knee when they marked the X on my kneecap for the procedure!

Back in the day I worked in a sawmill and also a commercial bakery so I have had some experience with shift work.  But throughout most of my work career, I have been in occupations where sticking to a rigid schedule wasn’t my modus operandi.  So, it came as a bit of a shock to the system to find myself punching in once again.  This was a fairly profound change to my routine and a welcome one.  It’s good to be busy and learning a new job among friends.

These days I spend quite a few hours a week at the hospital, working mostly with nurses.  These women and men are, in my humble estimation, the mortar that keeps the whole thing together.  They work 12 hour shifts and most of the time, they are going flat out.  They are professional, patient and occasionally profane.  Yes, I have come to discover that a quick wit is rather important if you’re going to spend your days tending to the sick.

I worked my first 12 hour shift ever a short while ago. What an eye opener.  And that was only one shift. The nurses work several in a row … some days and some nights.  The time off in between gives them just enough time to get their mental clocks straightened out before diving back in again.  It is not a lifestyle for the faint of heart, despite the glamour depicted on T.V.

Nurses deserve our utmost respect … because they don’t just show up at prime time.

 

Posted on November 12, 2015 under Thursday Tidbits with 3 comments

The Grassy Knoll – Dealey Plaza Dallas, Texas

Peter MacDonald Photo

 

I hardly know where to start.

A long road trip is so interesting with all the twists and turns in the road…literally and figuratively. You need to go with the attitude to expect the unexpected. This latest sojourn with my son, Peter has provided this and much more.

After a week of sun and sand in Florida, we have been wending our way to Victoria through the United States. I have been keeping copious notes of all three of our trips and could easily recommend routes, hotels and especially great places to eat. We have had some fantastic authentic meals including Cajun, Mexican and Texan BBQ.

It is also neat passing place names that were popularized in songs. We had lunch the other day in Tucumcari, New Mexico. If you were ( are ) a fan of the band “Little Feat” you will instantly recognize this as a place name in the song “Willin’” And of course, many of you weighed in on Facebook the other day when I posted the name of Winslow, Arizona. We were going to stop and take a picture “ standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona” but there was only one exit and were by it before we could blink.

So, here I sit in the lobby of the Maswick Lodge at the Grand Canyon tapping out these words at 4:45 a.m. on Wednesday. The triple time zone change plus the clocks going back last weekend, have me on the move at 4:00 every morning. Not sure my traveling companion is amused when I’m clunking around getting dressed and getting out the door to give him a few hours of extra sleep.

There is little doubt that the highlights of the trip will be the stop in Dallas and our visit to the Grand Canyon.

We arrived in Dallas on Sunday evening. The Cowboys were playing football in Dallas that evening which was a godsend as the traffic was almost non existent coming into the city. My plan was to get up early Monday morning and go to Dealey Plaza to see where JFK was killed, do a tour and then hit the road. We had a late dinner Sunday evening and took a cab ( Uber. Now that was an experience! ) to the site of the assassination. Although it was dark, the area was well lit and Peter snapped a very interesting picture of me standing on the exact spot on the road where the president was killed. Also in the frame are the “grassy knoll” and the Texas School Book Depository. The experience was surreal and I have written a major piece that I will be publishing in the days to come.

The Grand Canyon. If it’s not one of the “seven wonders of the modern world” it should be. But before you can see it, you have to get there. We ran into a rather serious snow squall about an hour away from the Canyon which nearly spoiled our day. I have detailed this entire adventure in a story called “A Grand Illusion” which will be published soon.

Most interesting sign on the trip so far? Just outside Amarillo, Texas we stopped at one of the many rest stops along the way. Exiting the car we noticed several signs warning us of rattlesnakes. We didn’t linger very long!

If all goes as planned, we’ll arrive in Victoria late on Friday.

Have a great day.

Posted on November 10, 2015 under Storytelling with 2 comments

NYC skyline

Peter MacDonald photo

 

 

It seems everyone is travelling these days. Young people are working all over the world and the baby boomers can’t seem to get enough of southern vacations, cruises and exotic adventures.  And families still like to go to old tried and true resorts like Disney.  Because of the sheer number of people on the move, the law of averages kicks in.   At some point you will experience travel delays, lost luggage and other hassles that often leave you wondering about the merits of simply staying home and reading National Geographic.

Ever since 9/11, travelling to the United States has become a bit more complicated. Increased security measures require thorough screening of people entering the country.  Long lineups at airports and border crossings have become the norm.  And sometimes, you are one of the unlucky ones who gets singled out for a more rigorous inspection.

There is only one thing worse than getting stuck in a long lineup of traffic at the U.S. border on a Friday night, and that’s getting caught in a lineup of precisely one car … yours.

Such was the case recently when my son and I were motoring to Victoria, B.C. from Halifax, with a small detour for a few days of sun and sand in Florida. Despite all the charms of the East Coast (the winter weather not being one of them), Peter had decided to move to a more moderate climate where he could pursue work and enjoy the healthy, active lifestyle that the West Coast is famous for.

He carefully packed all of his worldly possessions, including his musical equipment, into his car. Anticipating a shortage of space, he had purchased a clam shell to go on the roof. The vehicle was jammed so tight that there wasn’t room for an anaemic flea.  We looked like the Clampett family rolling into Beverly Hills.

I have never approached US Customs before where there wasn’t another vehicle in sight. We pulled up to the booth and handed over our passports.  We were asked a few questions and expected to be on our way in minutes, if not seconds.  However, it became abundantly clear that the agents on the evening shift at the St. Stephen’s crossing were bored out of their skulls.  I had visions of the Maytag repair man.  We were instructed to park our car, disembark and enter the Customs building.

Did I mention that I had to pee like a proverbial race horse?

The young official on the other side of the counter was all business. This was going to be the highlight of his night.  What could he possibly be thinking?  It became apparent that he was concerned that my son was going to look for work in the U.S.  (“Oh yeah.  This young guy and his dad are hitting the road and are gonna make it big time in Nashville and live like rock stars.”)  Two guys in ball caps – the next Hall & Oates.

After the initial round of questioning, I asked permission to use the washroom, which I thought was a reasonable request. But I guess if you’re a balding 60 something you could be a drug mule and might flush your drugs down the toilet.  Request denied.

The border agent was trying to verify that Peter had gainful employment in Canada. He was indeed set to join a band, having played a few gigs with them earlier in the year.  Now if you’re name is Bono or Ringo, proving that you are a member of a band is one thing.  How do you prove that you are about to become a member of a band?

I paced from side to side and finally, the agent felt a twinge of pity and let me use the washroom; saving a janitor the unsavoury duty of cleaning a puddle in front of the counter.

“We need to inspect your car.” Never have six words struck such terror into the hearts of these intrepid travellers.  I had this vision of the agent opening one of the side doors and the contents of the car springing forth and crossing the border on their own.  In my darkest moment, the thought also struck me that they might decide not to let us cross the border.  Rather than lying on a beach in Florida, I suddenly had a vision of us passing the giant statue of the goose in Wawa, Ontario as we make our way across Canada.  In November.

It was obvious that the Customs official needed something, anything, that he could justify to his boss for letting us through the checkpoint. Peter was allowed to retrieve his cellphone from the car and in short order, produced a picture of himself playing with the band.  He could have been playing with the Muppet’s band at this point and the agent would have let us go.

We slipped back into the car and eased down the highway. We flicked on the local FM station and heard the familiar strains of “Band on The Run”.